One reason I love spy stories is I’m so
intrigued by how a spy fools people with his or her double life. Maybe that’s
why comic book super hero stories are so much fun, too – because we like the
idea that the boring dude in an office cubicle may actually be hiding a real
identity of kick-ass-cloak-and-dagger spy guy.
And of course, in every great spy story,
there’s a moment when the main character’s two worlds collide – when people in
the regular life get a hint of, or become fully privy to, their friend’s true
persona.
Now I’m no CIA agent, of course (and I
haven’t killed anyone, either!), but when I was working this part-time job at
Cracker Barrel, the one thing that got me through sucking up my pride was the
knowledge that this wasn’t who I really was. I very much enjoyed showing up in
the white shirt and khakis, donning an apron and scooting around a general
store, tying yellow ribbons on rocking chairs and straightening shelves crammed
with candles and candy and knickknacks. And the whole time, my coworkers, my
customers … and even my managers … had no idea that my professional life was
that of a seasoned journalist. It was the first time in my career that I didn’t
have to think about a deadline, ferreting out hidden information or crafting
copy. I was making money with little to no stress – until, that is, the week
that I had to pull extra hours by unloading the contents of a truck into the
stock room.
I had prepared myself that I’d be working
longer hours to qualify for Cracker Barrel’s health insurance policy by my
probation date. But I hadn’t prepared
myself for the collision of my two worlds.
It all started with the morning after my
manager had informed me that my schedule would be changing to meet the health insurance
hourly goal ….
I was lining up interviews for a military
publication with 3 million readers. The topic: Perils of the Wounded Warrior in
the Workplace. The U.S. House Committee on Veterans Affairs had been holding
hearings on a disconnect between businesses, the Department of Veterans Affairs
and the veterans themselves.
I was frantically calling the press spokesman
for the committee chairman, Rep. Jeff Miller, a Republican from Florida, plus
the PR guys for other committee members. I also was interviewing proponents for
the veterans, proponents for small businesses … and somebody in the White House
was checking into whether they wanted to submit a statement on the issue.
I
simultaneously was working on two other articles – one for a trade magazine for
Realtors in Florida, the other for a business college’s alumni
publication. The challenge was to
complete these interviews AROUND the hours I would be unloading that truck into
Cracker Barrel’s stock room.
You and I both know that this was a recipe
for disaster, but at the time, I was so entirely focused on getting that health
insurance, I’d convinced myself I could pull all of it off without a hitch. I
knew there were certain days that I’d probably be needed at the Ole’ Country Store,
so I stacked the interviews on Monday and Friday in the coming week.
Monday was also Halloween, so in the midst of
interviews with the proponents for the veterans and the business organizations,
I had to dress my child in his Sonic the Hedgehog costume and go hawking for
candy that night.
As for Friday, I have to admit, looking back
on that calendar entry today, I’m impressed with how I had it stacked up.
It looked this way:
9:15 a.m. – A Realtor interview
10 a.m. – Interview for a university’s alumni
publication
12 p.m. – Representative Miller
1:30 p.m.—Representative Stutzman
2:45 p.m. – Representative Braley
(Normally with a blog like this, I wouldn’t
include these names. But for veracity’s sake, I’ve decided to do that so that
you’ll know I can’t possibly make this stuff up.)
I reasoned that on Tuesday, Wednesday and
Thursday, I could cram the Cracker Barrel hours … and then I would write my
military story in the coming week.
Are you confused yet? Because I am. But at
the time, it seemed completely logical and surmountable.
So that’s how everything looked on Sunday
night, the night before that fateful week began, when I showed up for a night
shift at Cracker Barrel. Normally I didn’t work Sunday evenings, but because of
trying to give me the hours I needed for the health insurance, the manager had
added it.
I clocked myself in, and before my shift
began, I went into the stock room, where the employee schedules were posted on
the wall, to mark down when I’d be working that coming week.
My stomach dropped as I saw my name
correlating with the time slots ….
You guessed it. I was down for Friday.
In that one moment, I actually wrestled with
what to do. What was more important? Completing interviews for a highly-visible
magazine on a topic of national importance to thousands of military veterans?
Or NOT alienating my manager at Cracker Barrel so that I would ensure the hours
I needed for affordable health insurance?
I took a deep breath and made my decision.
I tapped quietly on my manager’s office
door. She looked up from her desk.
I smiled. She didn’t.
“Hey, I’m sorry to interrupt you and to
bother you with this, but I have a scheduling conflict.”
She hesitated before saying, “I thought you
said you needed extra hours to get your health insurance.”
There it was – the condescending, flippant
comment I’d been dreading – but I pushed it aside.
“Yes, I know. And I do. The problem is that
on Friday, I have scheduled a series of important magazine interviews for a
story that’s due soon.”
She stared at me.
A good friend of mine has always told me, “The
last person to speak loses.” And although I knew that concept well, I made a
mistake. When she didn’t answer, I kept
talking.
“See, these interviews are with the Chairman
of the U.S. House Committee on Veterans Affairs, plus two other congressmen.”
She still didn’t say anything. And like an
idiot, I kept talking.
“And the White House is looking at submitting
a statement, but I have to keep time open also for them, just in case they have
someone available for me to interview, too.”
Her right eyebrow went up into her forehead,
and she smirked.
Could I blame her? I mean, would I believe
this story if I were in her shoes? It reminded me of a summer morning where I
had an interview for a story on how to get a technology job with the CIA (yes,
really, the CIA). The story was for a technology magazine. I’d told my child
not to interrupt while I closed myself in a room for a conference call with
three people. And of course, right in the middle of the interview, the doorbell
rang, the dog started barking, and I could hear my child saying very loudly to
the person, “I’M SORRY, I CANNOT INTERRUPT HER. SHE IS ON THE PHONE WITH THE
CIA.”
Yes, that happened. And that UPS delivery
driver who was at the door, from that time forward, always looked at me like I
was either the world’s biggest snob or someone who needed to be locked up in a
rubber room.
But I digress.
The manager rolled her eyes and huffed.
“Well, I’ll move the schedule around again,”
she said. “But don’t forget that you’re the one who requested this. Can you be
here for the extra hours on the other days? We’ll have to look at adding more
hours to your schedule next week to make up for the ones you’ll be missing on
Friday.”
I silently groaned but kept my cool.
“Yes, thank you. Thank you so much. I really
do appreciate it.”
“Uh huh.”
She went back to what she was doing without
looking back at me, and I felt like I was a 14-year-old who’d been accused of
lying and who had just been dismissed from the principal’s office.
I went into the General Store and started
straightening clothes and picking up strewn toys that had been cast about by
customers.
“I just have to get through the next three
weeks,” I told myself. “I will have affordable health insurance, and all of
this pride sucking will be worth it. It will be worth it.”
But I wasn’t prepared for what was awaiting
me the next morning – the day that everything started to unravel.
